True North
by BackToTheStart
Summary: S8 AU: House & Wilson embark on a trip, and come to terms with the things that have happened. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

He can tell from the sharp intake of breath that House is surprised to see him. It's the hardest thing ever, trying to pretend that nothing is wrong, but he forces himself to inch past House carefully and slip into the seat.

House stares for a while before turning away. "Nolan is an interfering fool."

Wilson feels like a fish, the way his mouth opens and closes several times. "He told me he had a ticket." he's rehearsed this many times, but it still comes out frightfully unconvincing. "He couldn't make it."

"I didn't buy one for him."

"He bought one for himself."

House maneuvers his right leg back into an outstretched position and sinks back into the seat, closing his eyes. "Right."

Wilson opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

He busies himself settling into the seat, fluffing up the pillow and placing his journals and magazines in the pocket of the seat in front of him. House's eyes remain closed. He is unmoving, his hand over his thigh.

There is ample space on the armrest between them since they're seated in business class. House's long limbs seem to encroach on his space, but Wilson knows it's really just an illusion borne by years of non-interaction.

Very slowly, Wilson brings his elbow up to rest on the armrest. It comes to rest against House's, the fabric of their shirt-sleeves just barely brushing against each other.

* * *

><p>An hour into the flight, and Wilson is feeling antsy. He's pretty sure one hour is incomparable to the past four years, but he still feels as if he's bursting at the seams. Like he's going to explode. Combust spontaneously. Bring the plane down in a fireball of orange and red flames.<p>

House is supposed to be asking him in the most offensive way possible how many panties he has conquered over the past year. He's supposed to be exasperated and rolling his eyes and trying to pretend that it is not right for House to want to know such intimate details.

God, it feels like he's suffocating. Maybe something is wrong with the air system in the plane. He wishes the oxygen masks would spring from the -

"For Christ's sake, Wilson." House eyes him irritably. "Stop it."

Wilson can feel a blush creeping onto his cheeks. He hadn't realized he was fidgeting. And, House should be the one who is nervous. Wilson didn't do anything wrong. He wasn't the one who nearly knocked over his best friend while driving into a house, and then ran away and became a _fugitive_.

Wilson suddenly has the irrational urge to burst into hysterical laughter. _Fugitive._ How many people could claim that they had a world-famous diagnostician best friend whose name was whispered in medical circles with near-reverence nearly run them over?

He see-saws back and forth between wanting to laugh out loud at the incredulity of this whole situation, and wanting to jump out of the plane to go back to the relative safety of his office, for three quarters of an hour until it's time for lunch.

Plane food. Wonderful way to top it all off.

"Screw this," he murmurs to himself.

He glances at House, who, too, is looking at his food with disdain, prodding at what seems to be fish smothered in a lumpy off-white sauce and the limpest vegetables Wilson had ever seen.

"Well," Wilson bumps his elbow against House's, and gestures at his own lunch tray of pesto chicken and rice. "This looks appetizing."

The pesto sauce has congealed and the oil is collecting at the bottom of the container. Wilson gets the sudden urge to laugh out again.

Maybe he's finally losing it after so many years of maybe he's just rediscovering some part of him that disappeared together with House.

"Yeah," House agrees. "It does." A ghost of a smile quirks at House's lips even as he stares down at his lunch tray, and Wilson only just realizes how much he's missed seeing it. "Even your attempt at beef wellington turned out better than this."

Wilson grins widely. "It wasn't that bad," he protests half-heartedly. "It was… creative."

"Your puff pastry didn't puff!"

"I had to win the bet. One and a half hours, you said."

"Not only did it not puff, it was _burnt._" House finally makes eye contact with him. "Which is, you know, practically impossible."

Wilson forces himself to look at House. And as their eyes meet, he thinks maybe, just maybe, this trip will turn out okay.

"I did put you on my list, you know," House says it as though it is the most normal thing on earth to discuss over dessert, which just so happens to be the highlight of the meal. "You were the only person on my visitor's list."

Wilson takes a long sip from his cup of coffee and says very slowly, "I didn't know that."

"Yeah," House muses. "I probably should have told you."

"I don't think… I wouldn't have visited you."

House nods. "Good for you."

* * *

><p>House's meds slowly take effect after lunch, and Wilson watches as House slowly relaxes into the seat, discomfort ebbing way and shallow, rapid breathing gradually evening out.<p>

House blinks drowsily, forcing his eyes open. His fingers twitch as Wilson reclines the seat for him and raises the footrest.

"Don't fight it," Wilson murmurs. "Just go with it." He can distinctly see the look on House's face. It says _you are fussing like a mother hen, woman._

The air stewardess, hovering nervously a few rows back, comes over and helps to settle House in. Wilson stops her as she reaches for House's right leg, which is extended into the aisle.

"I'll do it. Could you grab us an extra pillow?"

With one hand under the knee, and the other under the calf, Wilson slowly shifts the leg, allowing the air stewardess to slide the extra pillow beneath the knee. There is a hitched breath from House, who furrows his brow and murmurs a quiet protest. Wilson waits until House has settled back into drugged sleep before bending over and removing the sandal from House's right foot. Red lines mark the spots at which the sandal's straps cut into swollen flesh. The indents gradually even out as the red lines turn as white as the rest of the foot.

He shakes out the blanket, and covers House with it from chest to toe, tucking it in. He is just about to settle back in his seat when he finds long fingers wrapped around his wrist.

House lets his hand fall back onto his blanket-clad lap, tilting his head towards Wilson as he slips into sleep.

* * *

><p>For the first two weeks, Wilson was mad. He was really mad. He rummaged through every square inch of House's apartment, retrieving all the Vicodin bottles. He threw all the pills into one huge bag and <em>stomped<em> on them.

And with each stomp, he could feel his wrist throbbing. _Stomp thob stomp throb._ The pain was a perfect reminder that he had an insane best friend that was destructive and all overall risk to his mental health.

Wilson grew up a good boy, and was a noble doctor in one of the toughest specialties of medicine. How the hell did he end up with a friend like Gregory-fricking-House? What did he do to deserve a best friend who nearly ran him down en route to crashing a car into a house?

Wilson fell to the ground and stared at the ceiling.

He laughed; then he cried.

Then came the worry. Each time his phone rang, he feared it was the police informing him that they'd found a man. To be more specific, the body of a man with a gaping crater in the right thigh.

Then Cuddy realized that she was punishing him for his stupid best friend, and decided to pay a visit. _Wilson,_ she'd said, _you aren't looking well._ She bit her lips in that coy, tentative way of hers and Wilson could see that she honestly thought she wasn't at fault at all for whatever had happened._ He isn't worth it. Don't let him ruin our friendship, _she had the nerve to say_. _And she looked at him with those eyes that said _we're in the same boat and only we understand what it feels like to be at the mercy of Gregory House._

Wilson resisted the urge to throttle and scream at her –_ you shouldn't have fucking entered a relationship with him and told him he was incredible and that you never wanted him to change then _- and invited her and Rachel into the loft.

He remembers sitting together with House in a bar, smiling and celebrating the fact that House finally had won Cuddy's heart. House had been happy, telling him everything. He remembers the missed call from Foreman, and how he feared he had been too late to come to House's rescue after the wreck that was Hanna's unforeseen death. He remembers finding out, and smiling after they left his office, thinking that his best friend finally had some semblance of happiness, and had found his savior in the form of Lisa Cuddy.

A few weeks passed, and Cuddy tried to pretend everything was fine and better without House around. _I'm seeing a trauma counselor, _she said, and Wilson immediately wanted to laugh hysterically because _who would help House?_ and when she suggested he see one too, he said he had a headache and needed to rest. _We're still friends, Wilson. _Yeah, they still were. But House, House was the glue that connected them both. And House was _his_ friend.

When news came that House had given himself up, Wilson found himself avoiding Cuddy for a week, worrying about court proceedings. Then came the bombshell that House didn't even hire a lawyer, and Wilson knew that was it. House was broken.

He was horrified at House's lack of a fight, and horrified that it was Lisa Cuddy, whom he'd trusted with House's fragile heart, who had finally caused Gregory House to break.

Then came the day House was supposed to be released, and Wilson found himself waiting outside prison for someone who never appeared.

* * *

><p>House, eyes still glazed over, transfers over to the wheelchair without any complaint. He sits quietly in the wheelchair as they clear immigration speedily thanks to a special lane, and collect their baggage with the help of a porter.<p>

_Benefits of travelling with the crippled,_ House had once commented during one of their rare trips aboard, _so don't insinuate that I don't contribute._

"Subway's good here," House mumbles as they wait in line for a cab. Wilson understands the garbled words only because he's heard this man speak in various states of inebriation. "Should take that."

Wilson absentmindedly pats his pockets for their valuables and passport as he inches the wheelchair forward. "You'll flop over like a wet noodle."

"Taxis're 'spensive here."

Wilson likes the way House, usually so articulate, slurs his words together and forgets certain syllables when he's sleepy.

They end up in a twin single room in a small hotel, and Wilson carefully watches as House heads straight to the nearer bed and all but collapses in it. Soon, soft snores fill the room.

It is a skill to un-tuck bedcovers while someone is sleeping on them, but Wilson considers himself a master at it. He tugs off House's sandals, stuffs the memory foam pillow that House has brought along in his luggage under House's right leg.

Wilson didn't expect his first day ever in Japan to be spent watching over a sleeping man, or that the first place he would visit would be the nearest convenience store. He arms himself with the most valuable and important Japanese product ever invented - instant noodles – for dinner, and settles himself in for an evening with television.

* * *

><p>Wilson opens his eyes to find the room still shrouded in darkness. He scans the room to see House disappear into the en-suite bathroom, the <em>thud-squeak-thud-squeak<em> of the crutches being what woke him.

Suddenly wide awake, he listens anxiously to House puttering about in the bathroom. The bathroom is small, which is both a good thing and a bad thing.

He glances at the clock – 3.18am.

He hears the bath being run. He holds his breath, and lets it out only when he hears the splash that tells him House has made it into the bath successfully.

He is woken again at 3.55am by a loud thud. Belatedly comes a clatter as what he presumes to be crutches, fall to the ground.

Wilson lies in bed and fights the desperate urge to barge into the toilet. If he hears nothing within the next ten minutes, he makes up his mind to go help House, no matter how unwelcome his gesture might be.

He's at the tail-end of nine minutes when the bathroom door opens.

Wilson lies there buried in his cocoon of blankets, watching silently as House laboriously pulls on his compression stocking, throws on a shirt and tugs on his track pants.

It is 4.26am when House picks up a pillow and unceremoniously flings it at Wilson's head while simultaneously switching on all the lights in the room.

"House," Wilson moans, scrubbing his face. He was just about to fall back asleep. "It's not even five yet!"

"You don't complain when your patients code in the middle of the night."

"Dying. Humans."

"Same difference."

"You are kidding," Wilson rolls over and buries his head in his pillow. The bed is firm and solid and comfortable. Soft beds wreak havoc on his back. "Entertain yourself. Quietly."

"You want the freshest fish, you wake up early. And this is where people will insert the lame proverb about the worm."

"The early bird gets the worm," Wilson says automatically without even realizing. Then he blinks stupidly at House. The cogs of his brain are working in overdrive to process House's words – they don't work so well before 5am and without caffeine.

"Fish?"

"That's what I said. Chop chop, Wilson."

* * *

><p>Wilson is an avid grocery shopper. When he has the time for it, he likes to head down to farmers' markets or supermarkets to buy quality ingredients. He is, however, unprepared for what greets him when he steps out of the cab. It is wet.<p>

The building is filled with throngs of people shouting at one another over the freshest fish available – some of which caught barely an hour before. Whole, huge fish are laid out neatly on the tarp-covered ground, while other shellfish and seafood are stacked up on tables. Fishermen wheel their catch to their respective stalls, while chefs, lackeys and housewives battle over the freshest produce.

Everything is so fresh Wilson can almost _smell _the sea in the air.

"Tsukiji Market," House announces as they come to stand in front of its entrance. "Otherwise known as the Mecca of fresh seafood."

Wilson worries for a moment that the hustle and bustle of the market will pose a danger to a man in crutches, but the Japanese people are polite to a fault, and the crowd parts automatically to let House through.

House bypasses the two shops with the longest queues – at least fifteen people in each queue, and each shop is tiny, seating only twelve at the most – and heads to a nondescript shop just off the main belt of sushi restaurants.

The shop is tiny, with a red lantern hanging to the right of its main entrance. Extending his arms, Wilson can touch both the wall of the shop and the sushi counter. It's eighteen steps from the front entrance of the shop to its back. Ten seats surround three chefs behind a counter displaying slabs of the freshest fish available. A sole waitress weaves in and out of the seats, serving up miso soup, clearing plates and passing out cold towels.

They are hustled to their seats, and they sit shoulder-to-shoulder at the counter. The waitress takes House's crutches, and House gestures at the menu, speaking to the smiling chef quietly in Japanese.

He remembers one of the first times he had sushi meal with House. House had been horrified at the way with which he ate his sushi. _That's sacrilegious_, he'd proclaimed loudly in the restaurant, attracting the stares of countless other patrons, making Wilson wish he could disappear under the table.

_Pick the sushi up with the chopsticks_, House had proceeded to demonstrate_. In decent restaurants, the sushi already contain a dab of wasabi, _House had lifted up the slice of fish to show Wilson the small amount of green paste. Wilson had tried to smother a chuckle at how precise and serious House had seemed. _Don't snigger, Wilson_, House had scowled, _it's an art. Now watch and learn carefully, because you are being woefully ignorant and embarrassing. _Wilson had punched House lightly, but House had been too skillful with the chopsticks to drop his sushi. _ Dip it fish-side down into the soy sauce – the rice will absorb too much soy sauce. Then pop the whole thing in your mouth._

They hardly patronize Japanese restaurants in New Jersey even though House loves Japanese food. Now, in this quaint little shop, just a stone's throw away from the freshest catch available for the day, sitting in front of a chef who has probably dedicated his whole life to the art of sushi-making, Wilson understands why House never bothered to visit the numerous Japanese restaurants back home.

Wilson watches the deft hands of the chef, mesmerized, as he assembles the sushi. He winces, however, when he sees the chef dab on the green paste that is wasabi. He has never been a fan of its grating taste.

House seems to be thinking along the same lines, for he says, "The wasabi here is different. Better."

Wilson casts a doubtful look at House. He remembers House sneakily adding copious amounts of wasabi to his sushi while he wasn't looking, causing his eyes to water and nose to run. His sinuses hadn't recover for days.

From then on, he's never really liked the bright green condiment.

"Seriously, Wilson," House sighs, gesturing to a root vegetable displayed on the counter. "It's freshly grated wasabi here. None of that powdered nonsense we usually get back in New Jersey."

House doesn't use the word _home_.

Wilson goes through the motions that House has ingrained into him over the years before popping the entire thing into his mouth. The wasabi is indeed different – it is freshly grated, and not as sharp and stinging as those he's used to back home. It's subtle. The soy sauce too, is of a different quality: less salty and more fragrant.

Pieces of sushi are placed in front of them by the genial chef; each impeccably assembled with the perfect fish-to-rice ratio and the right size to pop in their mouths. House introduces each fish in both English and Japanese _– sake, ebi, maguro, hamachi, hotate_ – and Wilson simply cannot keep up. He's eaten Japanese food before, but this, this is in a league of its own. He can taste the sea, and can sense the craftsmanship behind each piece. It's a symphony of flavors progressing from the light and clean-tasting to the rich and fatty, all laid on top of warm, sticky vinegared rice.

One particular piece of tuna, pink with white streaks of fat, which House says is _otoro_, is like butter. It melts in the mouth, and Wilson swoons unashamedly over it.

He peeks over at House. He can see the tiny smile and the glimmer of a tiny spark in the blue eyes.

They don't talk, too preoccupied with the food that keeps coming. Wilson doesn't actually know what to say. There is no PPTH gossip to discuss, no stupid clinic patient stories to tell. But somehow, there isn't a need to fill the silence. Food has always been something special for them - it's Wilson conjuring up magic in the kitchen, or trying to lure House into eating, or House saving Wilson's balls, or House stealing Wilson's food.

It is the same here. It is enough for them to sit shoulder-to-shoulder next to each other, watching the deft hands of the sushi chef, sipping green tea. It feels surreal here in this tiny shop. They are seated in front of a beautiful wooden counter, under warm yellow lights, surrounded by strangers, thousands of miles away from cancer patients and clinic duty. And it feels right.

The piece de resistance is a warship-style sushi – an orange slimy thing on top of rice, wrapped in seaweed (nori, according to House). Wilson stares at it. It looks disgusting. It's like sludge, but orange in colour.

"You _have_ to eat that," House says pointedly. "Don't be an idiot. It's _uni_. Sea urchin, and it's goddamn good. Like _otoro_."

House hasn't lost his knack for reading him, then. Wilson hesitates, reluctant to ingest such dubious-looking food.

Before he can even begin to garner his courage to tackle the… thing, it disappears off his plate and into House's mouth. Then the steaming hot miso soup is delivered to him by the efficient waitress, signifying the end of the meal.

"_House_," Wilson exclaims in dismay. He did want to try it after all.

House smirks, and really, everything is right again.

* * *

><p>They arrive early at the airport for their flight to Okinawa, both painfully aware of how crowded airports can be a nightmare for the… less mobile.<p>

But the Japanese are not only polite; they are efficient too. The airport is huge, but they find their check-in counter easily with the help of their cab driver. The young girl at the counter notices House's crutches, and discreetly offers them the use of a complimentary buggy service.

House doesn't say no.

When they settle in on the buggy, House turns to Wilson with a grin. "Oh come on, Wilson. We might as well have some fun."

Wilson can only manage a weak smile as the wet patch on House's coat – courtesy of a puddle outside the market – taunts him. Wilson can still felt the tattered dredges of panic clinging onto him.

Wilson tries not to enjoy it so much when they zoom past people trudging along with their carry-on bags towards far-flung gates.

He totally does not enjoy it when House makes faces at their fellow travelers and whoops. He totally does not.

* * *

><p>Wilson stops in his tracks as he turns around from the small café. House, seated on a bench, contemplatively staring out the floor-length windows, is bathed in the soft glow of the rising sun's light. Instead of bringing vitality and life like it usually would for most other people, the light seems to soften House, bringing out a vulnerability that Wilson has rarely seen.<p>

Wilson sits down next to House, and passes him the green tea. They sit there in silence, the hysterics and fun of the past fifteen minutes having dissipated, watching planes take off and land.

Wilson turns towards House and hesitatingly asks, "What was it like in there?" He remembers cornering Thirteen in the cafeteria, desperation leaking out of his every pore, asking, _What is it like in there_. The sad, tight smile told him everything he needed to know.

House shrugs, tracing the lines on his cup. "Bad food, bad people, bad sleep. Like everywhere else."

"You were supposed to get out months earlier." Wilson stares down at his own murky coffee. "I checked." _I waited._

"I had a patient."

Somehow, Wilson isn't surprised to hear that.

"I went against orders to prove that I was right."

"Were you right?"

"Yeah," House doesn't seem proud of the fact, though, his fingers going to tug absentmindedly at his shirt collar. "Diagnosed him without any machines or references or team. Just the one prison doctor."

Something clicks in Wilson's mind. "Adams."

House nods. "She… believed in me." House sounds rather incredulous. "Said I had a gift."

"She lost her job because of you…" Wilson wonders out loud, trying to piece everything together. "And you asked her to come to PPTH… She came and applied for a job in Diagnostics despite the fact that she had no prior experience, and wasn't particularly brilliant... We weren't even hiring."

"Did she get it?"

"She only got it after she joined in an impromptu differential with the team after one of their patients collapsed outside the hospital after discharge.

"Huh."

"It was rather impressive. Foreman couldn't quite believe that she hijacked the differential and actually came up with the answer, while being all moralizing and self-righteous."

House sniggers.

"You miss them."

House shrugs. "I've got all I need with the online consulting."

The fact that House doesn't disagree tells Wilson everything he needs to know. The team was probably the closest thing to a family, or friends, that House ever had, though he strove to hide that he cared for them. And they did too, for House.

Wilson only realized that when he saw them battle off against Cuddy and the other doctors when they took on the case of the lungs for Vanessa. The whole time, Wilson could only think: _House would be able to solve this_.

Foreman was the one who researched the idea of getting House out on conditional parole. Cuddy had been totally opposed to the idea, but in the end, had very reluctantly agreed to bring House on only to consult.

But no such special reprieve was granted in the end. And Wilson had watched as Vanessa slowly suffocated to death without the lungs.

"They had the coolest case, you know. Lungs, in a box."

"Oh?" House perks up slightly. Wilson shakes his head. "Oh."

Wilson contemplates telling House that he hated him for getting himself into jail, but he decides against it.

"You would have figured it out, you know. Like you would have, for Chase."

Somehow, it doesn't surprise Wilson that House seems to know exactly what he is talking about. He thinks back to those dark times when the entire team was in what could only be termed as shell-shock. "He had to diagnose him – "

Suddenly, it all dawns upon Wilson.

"You solved it," Wilson breathes, not quite able to believe it. "Chase asked you."

House sips at his green tea, and remains silent.

"House."

"He emailed me."

"And you replied him. You helped him, even though you had disappeared, cutting off all ties with me- _us_." For the first time in the trip, Wilson finds himself starting to get angry. "You_ bastard_."

"It was a one-liner. I didn't reply the following ten emails."

"You fucking asshole." _You could have contacted me too_, he doesn't say.

"What, you wanted me to contact you instead?" House draws himself up, bitter fury somehow mingling with incredulity on his face. "After I turned up at your doorstep, fresh out of two years in jail, with your favorite Thai food, only to get punched? And a door slamming in my face?"

Wilson sputters, futilely gesturing in the air for no good reason. "Yes!"

"Fuck you," House finally spits out as he heaves himself to his feet. "Fuck you and your self-righteousness and know-it-all-ness. Fuck you for encouraging me to go after Cuddy. Fuck you for getting together with Sam and asking me to move out. _Fuck you_."

House yanks his backpack off the bench. He doesn't look at Wilson as he walks away, his backpack bouncing on his back with each crutch-step.

* * *

><p>Wilson ends up boarding the plane alone, having waited till the very last minute possible. He fidgets anxiously in his seat, eyes never leaving the plane door, which remains open for the one last passenger who has yet to turn up.<p>

People around him are starting to grumble at the delay, but when they see the wheelchair, they quieten down.

The flight attendant wheels House to the first row, and speaks quietly to the young lady who was lucky enough to get a seat with ample leg space in the small plane.

Of course, the young lady gives up her seat, and Wilson watches as House puts on a smile of gratitude, and levers himself into the seat. The flight attendant stows House's backpack away in the overhead compartment. The young lady – very attractive, with a great figure – settles down in the aisle seat next to him that was meant for House.

Wilson, dismayed, can't bring himself to chat up the attractive woman.

Halfway through the flight, though, House stands up, trying to reach for the overhead compartment. It is a bad idea, Wilson knows, and he is proven right when after an awkward hop-limp, House passes out.

Wilson all but scrambles over his seatmate in his haste to get to House. To their credit, the plane passengers don't panic. Or maybe it's because he's loudly announcing, _it's okay, it's okay, I'm a doctor, I'm his doctor_ to the entire cabin.

House comes to just a few minutes later. His two seatmates had kindly switched seats, allowing Wilson and the flight attendant to sprawl House across the entire row of seats.

"Your blood pressure bottomed out for a moment there," Wilson presses his finger to House's carotid artery, and mentally counts. He can feel the cold sweat, and the scars that he knows weren't there before. "What do you need, House?"

House's hands shake as they fist Wilson's shirt, and House tilts his head upwards, shifting his eyes towards the overhead compartment.

Wilson retrieves the bag of meds. It's huge, and all neatly labeled. Wilson locates the right container - one of those pill organizers that allow you to pack your meds into separate doses for convenience. Wilson locates the right compartment, snapping it open, and tips out the pills into his palm.

Seven of them, altogether, some of which he see nearly every day.

He helps House up, and drops the pills into House's clammy palms. House's hands are shaking so much that Wilson has to help him bring the cup of water to his mouth. He swallows the pills one by one, taking big gulps of water.

House takes a deep breath, and slowly, his tense muscles start to relax, and the shaking diminishes. Wilson gets up, as if to leave, but is stopped by a hand on the crook of his elbow.

He sits back down next to House, and they are silent for the rest of the way to Okinawa.

TBC...


	2. Chapter 2

They check into a family-run _ryokan_ – a tiny, charming Japanese inn – that has only three rooms. House instructs Wilson to remove his shoes before stepping onto the tatami flooring, and venturing into the room. It is a little small, with the living area doubling up as the sleeping area at night. But the highlight is the view – the room opens up to a large balcony that overlooks a valley with a little stream gurgling through it.

"I came back out to look for you," Wilson says. "But you were gone."

It's a chilly spring day with a light drizzle, so they are sitting out on the balcony, cups of the homemade _ocha _– green tea – warming their hands, raindrops audible on the hollow roof. Wilson sips at his tea, savouring the nutty aftertaste that lingers on the palate.

House glances at him. "Your opinion was made clear after you broke my nose."

"I… broke it?" Wilson is trying to sound apologetic, but he's mostly pleasantly surprised that his left hook cut such a mean punch.

"So the crunching sound of my nose being broken wasn't loud enough. Sorry about that," House shoots back sarcastically. "And yes, you don't punch like a girl. Congratulations."

House's droll expression tells Wilson that he's not really succeeding in hiding his pleasure. He honestly isn't sorry he punched House. It was much needed, considering how much the man had put him through the wringer after the… _fiasco_.

But he_ is_ sorry that it drove House away, for whatever reason it was. He's not entirely sure. He still can't figure it out.

"I didn't mean… It just came out of nowhere."

House casts a sideway glance at Wilson, sobering suddenly. "You were angry. Understandably."

"You should have persisted. Like you always do. You should have continued bugging me."

For a moment, disbelief and frustration flashes through House's face. But it disappears soon enough. House pulls the blanket tighter around himself, and leans back into his chair.

Wilson is just about to doze off in when House says abruptly, "I made a wager."

Wilson is a little lost. "Uh…?"

"Did Nolan tell you how I came to be his… patient again?"

"You know he can't tell me that."

"Yay for patient confidentiality."

"I would like to know."

House exhales heavily in a half-laugh, and sets down his cup of tea. "The local gangs came after me."

"Why?"

"They knew I was a doctor."

"Drugs." Then he gets it. "Vicodin."

House states matter-of-factly, "I stocked up."

Wilson kneads at the tense muscles of the nape of his neck. "You weren't intending to come back at all."

House continues as if he didn't hear it. "They held a knife to my throat. Wanted me to get more."

To any other person, it isn't obvious, hidden in the natural creases of the neck. But the scar is as clear as day to Wilson. He hesitantly extends his arm, and gently traces the scar that runs just along the carotid artery. He represses a shudder.

"I wasn't scared at all." House shifts away, and tugs his collar up to cover the scar. "I should have been."

"You weren't scared when you got shot. Or when you were held hostage and staring down the barrel of a gun."

"And I ended up in the loony bin." House pauses for a while before adding, "Sticking a knife into a socket, going into insulin shock, ODing… they were all personal choices. It's different from being shoved up against the wall, four vs one, knife against throat."

Wilson gets it. It wasn't just about the knife at the throat. House, always so in control, so restrained, finally unleashed all his hurt in the most destructive, mindless way possible. And it must have been terrifying for the man who prided himself on being logical and rational all the time.

"So you called Nolan."

"I came back a month later."

"You didn't even get a lawyer."

House shrugs. "What I did was wrong."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Wilson demands in a low voice, setting his cup of tea down on the table in between them, "This is not like you at all, running away and being a coward!"

"I came back and served my time," House replies testily. "I _ran_ away. Past tense."

"You disappeared off the grid for the past two years! And in the end, it was _Nolan_ who called me!"

"You punched me, Wilson. I didn't even get a chance to open my mouth!"

"And you… you gave up too easily!"

"What about - _you shouldn't have punched me_." House shoots back. "I told you. It was a wager. I _told_ Nolan that I would have to grovel. I _told_ him I was better off doing my PhD, in physics and dark matter. I _told_ him there was nothing for me to go back to... That everything, and everyone, was just fine without me. And you proved me right."

Wilson freezes. "So what? It was some kind of test?" he says incredulously.

"Yes!" House shouts, banging his crutch against the floor. "And you failed it!"

"What the hell, House!" Wilson cannot quite believe this stupid, stupid man in front of him is supposedly one of the most brilliant doctors in the world. "You can't base it all on one split-second reaction from me!"

House stares defiantly right back at him, incredulous that he just doesn't get it."If you, even you, hated me, then I had _nothing_ left there! Don't you get it? What else did you think was left for me? _Cuddy_?"

Wilson can only stare, his mouth agape. He blinks once, slowly, painfully aware that he has no answer.

"Yeah, well," House mutters as he gets to his feet. "You couldn't have been more wrong."

* * *

><p>When Wilson finally garners sufficient composure to re-enter the room, House is asleep in a corner, his bedding –<em> futon<em>, House had said - haphazardly laid out on the floor. Wilson stares at House for a while before tip-toeing to switch off the lights.

He steps out onto the balcony when his phone rings. It's Cuddy. For the millionth time in the past two days.

He stands there for a while, looking down at the screen. It is Rachel's face on the screen, and she's grinning happily despite her missing front teeth.

He rejects the call.

Almost instantly, a text comes in. Cuddy, of course.

_Where are you?_

It's a reasonable question, since Wilson left within a few hours of getting Nolan's call in the middle of the night. In fact, because it was the middle of the night, he only managed to send in a hasty email to Cuddy and his department, before packing his bags and rushing to the airport. He had only managed to call Brown right before boarding the plane to delegate his work and patients before hastily rushing onto the plane, already one of the last passengers to board.

Still, Wilson is irked by it. Maybe five, six years ago, things would have been different, and he would have been touched by her concern. But things have changed. Their relationship has changed. He and Cuddy used to have a common topic – House, and how to save him from himself. With House becoming the new He Who Must Not Be Named in the hospital, it was just work. And Rachel.

And somehow, Wilson couldn't find it in himself to reconnect with Cuddy.

He switches off his phone, and heads back into the room.

There is a knock on the door when he steps out of the shower, toweling his wet hair.

The innkeeper's wife is standing outside together with her mother-in-law, both carrying trays and baskets. Wilson vaguely recalls a conversation between House and the innkeeper discussing what time dinner would take place. He smiles at them, and invites them in.

Miyako-san and her mother-in-law, Hiromi-san, are quiet as they set dinner up on the low table. There is no dining table or chairs – sitting on the floor is a traditional custom.

Out of the baskets and covered trays come immaculate lacquered boxes and plates with exquisitely arranged food. Wilson watches, fascinated, as they arrange the plates on the table. It's a _kaiseki _meal – the Japanese equivalent of haute cuisine. Each meal consists of the freshest produce of the day; each small dish is prepared to enhance their natural flavors and put together to form the most delicate balance and a symphony for the tastebuds.

Miyako-san, noticing Wilson's fascination, smiles and murmurs quietly an introduction to each component of the elaborate meal. There is a small plate of sashimi, just a few slices of the day's freshest fish. There is a small claypot containing clear soup, and a little burner that keeps the it bubbling hot. There is chicken simmered in stew, broiled fish that is incredibly fresh and barely requires any seasoning, vegetables that have been cut beautifully into various shapes and arranged precisely on the plate, various other small plates containing bite-sized portions of food, as well as a steaming hot bowl of rice that is covered in fish flakes, seaweed and various other condiments.

Miyako-san glances at House for a while, a slight frown on her delicate features. Before Wilson can say anything, though, she leaves the room, and comes back ten minutes later with a hot compress.

"Family recipe," she says quietly as she passes it to Wilson. It is just the right temperature, with a pleasantly herbal smell. "Help House-san leg."

Wilson nods and smiles before hesitantly saying, "_Arigatou gozaimasu_."

Miyako-san hides a smile and asks in her lilting accent, "First time in Japan?"

Wilson smiles sheepishly. Evidently, his attempt at the Japanese language left much to be desired. "Yes. But my friend lived here when he was a child. I'm just… tagging along."

"He speaks very good."

"He can speak many languages," Wilson chuckles. "He reads manga at work sometimes."

"Boys like manga very much," agrees Miyako-san. "My boy read them everywhere."

They share knowing looks and secret smiles. The moment fades away, though, when Miyako-san gestures at House and states quietly, "House-san is sick." It is not a question, but a statement.

Wilson glances over at House, and nods. "He is not well."

"You take very good care of him, Wilson-san," Hiromi-san joins them, patting his forearm soothingly with her small, wrinkled hands. It reminds Wilson of his grandmother. "I can see."

He shrugs and says wryly, "I try."

Hiromi-san raises her eyebrows, an understanding, almost hawkish, glint in her eyes. Wilson feels a bit like a small boy in front of this tottering, grey-haired lady who is a head shorter than him. "Difficult man," she proclaims, albeit in a hushed tone.

_Oh,_ Wilson thinks, _that barely even scratches the surface. _

He settles for an inadequate answer that hardly sums it all up. "Very."

Hiromi-san breaks into a smile, and nods approvingly. "You are good man, Wilson-san," Hiromi-san pats his arm again as Miyako-san nods in agreement. "Very good man."

* * *

><p>When Wilson turns back towards the room after letting Miyako-san and Hiromi-san out, House is awake and leaning against the wall, salt-and-pepper hair sticking up at all angles.<p>

Wordlessly, Wilson passes the hot compress to House, who accepts it with a muttered "thanks".

The food is wonderful, just as Wilson expects it to be. The hot soup leaves in its wake a trail of warm goodness. Each delicately plated dish is small in quantity but big on taste. They are a play on textures, a symphony of flavors, delicate and heartwarming. Even the rice, simply garnished with the condiments, is delicious, with each pearly grain just the right texture.

They eat in silence, keeping their gazes fixed on their own food.

House attempts to tackle the fish but sets it aside after a few half-hearted attempts at removing the small fiddly bones. He eats slowly, ladling the soup onto his rice to ease its way down.

Wilson watches apprehensively: he knows House hates that. He remembers cooking chicken porridge for House once, when he came down with an awful bout of the flu. It was the only thing Wilson cooked that House rejected outright. He'd deemed it _unpalatable _and _mushy_ and _disgustingly unappetizing. _

"You okay?" he asks hesitantly.

House nods before clambering to his feet and making his way into the bathroom. Minutes later, he comes out and heads straight to his futon. He curls on his left side, right leg supported by the left. Soon, his breathing levels out and he is sleeping again.

A niggling feeling in his stomach, Wilson sits down next to House and lays his hand over House's forehead.

He's right. House is running a fever. A very slight one, but it is still a fever. Probably triggered by the exertions of the past few days.

Wilson knows to expect this – things going swimmingly well would be just plain wrong with House– but he still is dismayed.

He fetches House's backpack, and rummages through it. It's scary how organized it is, how seriously House is treating this. Wilson locates the antipyretics and pours a glass of water before coaxing House awake. House takes the pills without protest, and curls up asleep a few moments later.

Hiromi-san and Miyako-san make an appearance a while later to clear the leftover food and trays. He murmurs to them an apology for the unfinished food, and they nod in understanding before starting to lay out the futon for him. Once again, they work so quietly that House doesn't stir at all.

Weariness enshrouds Wilson like a heavy cloak even though the sun has only just begun setting. His futon is a few feet away from House's, and he lies down on it for a while before standing up again, and dragging it closer to House's. It's less than a foot between them. House's chest rises and falls in the dark, and Wilson resists the urge to reach out to touch House.

But it seems almost instinctual, how House turns around and curls up facing Wilson. To compensate, his right leg comes to rest in an awkward position that will viciously take revenge in the morning. Wilson winces, then goes to retrieve the memory foam pillow. As he's positioning House's right leg on the pillow, House stirs, mumbling, "You didn't blow dry your hair."

Wilson blinks. "You're running a fever."

He lies down on his back, looking up at the ceiling.

House blinks back. He's quiet for a moment before saying to Wilson's left ear, "'m sorry about your wrist."

Wilson finds himself shifting his body, and curling up on his side, mirroring House. He recalls one particular trip with House where there had been a blackout. They'd spent the night laughing away as House told frightening ghost stories that had freaked them both out so much it was bordering on ludicrous.

Wilson flares his nostrils, an ironic smile tugging at his lips at the memory.

He draws himself back to the moment. "I broke your nose with the same hand, by the way. It seemed… appropriate."

House chuffs. "Yes it was."

"House?"

"Mm."

"I'm not sorry I punched you." He can feel on his nose the gust of air that comes from House's heavy exhale. "But I am sorry that it ended up driving you away."

"I made up my mind before that."

"But…"

"Talking about the past doesn't change things."

They lapse into silence, the darkness slowly encroaching upon the room. The only sounds are that of the heater and their breathing.

"Relish this moment, BFF," House mutters. "I feel like we're about to paint each other's toenails."

It does feel like they're best friends at a sleepover, curled up and facing each other, confessing their deepest and darkest secrets.

"Tell me," House whispers theatrically. "How many ladies have fallen prey to your irresistible charm?"

Wilson can't help but giggle. He's actually been waiting for House to ask this question since the start of the trip. Because he's lying on his side, he lets out a rather undignified snort. House stares at him for a while before dissolving into giggles of his own.

"Two," Wilson manages to gasp out. "And I didn't propose to any of them. This is where you say, _well done,_ _Wilson_."

They chortle for a good minute or two and Wilson lets out a contented sigh as their laughter trails off, hand holding his aching side.

The silence that ensues is comfortable, and Wilson is almost content to let it go on until he remembers that there is so much to find out about House in the past four years.

"Why dark matter?" he blurts out.

House pauses, and then says, "It's the greatest mystery of all time. No one's ever proven its existence."

"And it's pure science - cold, hard science with zilch humanity."

"Me and humanity… we got together too young."

The implications of that statement, and that matter-of-fact way it is delivered, are astounding. Wilson doesn't quite know how to respond. "Is that all you did? Along with the online consultancy?"

House shrugs with a low non-committed hum, eyes falling close.

"Then where did you stay? Before… Fiji. Before I punched you."

"Nolan's place."

Wilson sighs, and thanks his lucky stars that Nolan somehow could get through to House. He was an equal to, if not better than, House at his game.

"You know… Taub has two daughters. Called Sophie and Sophia." House snorts and almost chokes on his saliva. "Foreman is… what you would call boring. Thirteen got married to her girlfriend. Chase… is, you know, walking again. And Adams… she's like Cameron 2.0, with hints of cutthroat bitch."

"Like Amber."

Wilson fingers his pillow, resisting the urge to change the subject. He nods and confirms, "Like Amber."

"Your team misses you, you know," ventures Wilson. "All of them."

"I've been away before."

"It's been years." Then, realizing something, he adds, "And they don't miss just Housethe doctor."

"Tell them to suck it up."

Wilson's turn to roll his eyes. "That's… nice."

"And WWHD." House, with his eyes closed, offers a lazy smile.

"You _are_ comparing yourself to Jesus."

"Mmm." House burrows himself further into his blanket, on the verge of sleep.

"House?"

"Hmm."

"Were you happy?"

Wilson waits, patiently, holding his breath, but the only answer is the silence. He stares at the sleeping man's long lashes, and pulls the blanket up to better cover his thin frame.

Then he allows himself to fall asleep.

* * *

><p>Wilson anxiously hovers as they trek down the narrow cobbled streets. His attempts at trying to take House's backpack have been obstinately rebuffed with a dangerous glare.<p>

They are looking for a place for lunch, having overslept breakfast by hours. Wilson can feel his stomach protesting, growling.

They don't admit it, but Wilson knows it's the most comfortable sleep both he and House have had for years. And waking up with House pressed against his shoulder - seeking warmth despite the blankets and coats he had piled on House's shivering form in the middle night – with mouth open and drooling on his shoulder…

He was content to just lie there and wait for House to wake up of his own accord.

"House…" Wilson sighs. "Look, that restaurant is filled with people. It must be good. Let's just eat there." Actually, he hasn't had a bad meal in Japan yet. It just seems impossible here in this country.

House only continues heading down the narrow street, going deeper, deeper, deeper in to the maze of quaint little shops, determinedly looking for one specific shop.

In the end, Wilson succeeds in hijacking the backpack. It makes him feel better, like he's actually doing something.

They walk past rows and rows of shops filled the quaintest things – food that look so real, but are miniature in size, some of them the size of his little finger's nail; gleaming knives of all shapes and sizes; chopsticks and lacquered bowls with the most ornate designs; a thousand varieties of hand-held fans and kimonos and wooden slippers and lanterns. Then there are the ubiquitous toyshops filled from floor to ceiling with all sorts of paraphernalia, especially that of a white cat with no mouth, Hello Kitty.

Finally, House stops in front of a nondescript shop. From what Wilson can see, it sells noodles.

Like many of the other shops that they had trekked past.

Wilson is about to ask what is so special about this shop when House is ducking under the banner hanging in the doorway of the restaurant, and somehow gracefully maneuvering his way in despite the crutches.

Wilson sighs a long-suffering sigh before following House in. The show is tiny, empty, and can sit six people at the most. It looks just like any other noodle shop.

But House is standing there, a strange look on his face.

"Isao-san," House says quietly, bowing slightly to the short, silver-haired man who comes to stand in front of them.

That is all Wilson can catch. Wilson listens to the stream of words that seem to flow languidly out of House. He's heard House speak the language several times over this trip, but here, with this wizened old man, it is different. The Japanese language is slow but melodious, and it seems almost surreal to hear the mellifluous language flow out of House.

The old man in front of them wipes his hands on his apron, stunned, as House speaks, before enveloping House in a hug. A small smile, a really genuine one, appears on House's face, and Wilson watches, amazed, as House hugs back. Not tentatively patting Isao-san's back. No, House is embracing Isao-san.

Isao-san steers them both to seats at the counter. Wilson finds himself sitting at the counter of the hole-in-the-wall shop. Before him, Isao-san chops and dices and cooks all at the same time, the sole musician of a mini-orchestra in the tiny kitchen.

A bowl of noodles is served up to them: yellow, springy noodles in a milky, rich broth with slices of char-grilled pork, bamboo shoots, spring onions and a kind of black fungus that Wilson has sometimes seen in Chinese soups.

"Ramen," House says with almost what can be termed as a deep-seated reverence. "The authentic kind."

The gourmet cook in Wilson can see the high quality of pork, and the perfect way in which it has been grilled – charred just enough for a crisp skin, but not enough to overwhelm the natural sweetness of the pork that comes with the streaks of fat.

Before he can even pick up the chopsticks, though, House whips the bowl away from him. "Jews," House says pointedly, "can't eat pork."

"I can try the soup," Wilson says hopefully.

"It is made from boiling pork bones on the stove for _days_." House passes to him a bowl of rice instead. "_Oyako-don_," he introduces with a flourish. "Broiled chicken with scrambled eggs and onions."

Wilson looks down at his bowl in slight disdain. It pales in comparison to the steaming bowl of noodles, which House has begun tucking into with much gusto.

Once he tastes some of his _oyako-don_, though, all his disdain dissipates into thin air. Brown and gooey and unappetizing-looking, the _oyako-don_ is a supernova of flavours on his tongue. The onions are sweet and tender, the chicken juicy with the right bite. The perfectly balanced sweet-salty sauce coats the al dente rice grains. It is so simply, and so flavorful.

House says in an undertone, his eyes on Isao-san, who is still cooking, "There is a reason I never agree to Japanese take-out."

Looking back at the kind of Japanese take-out they have home, and what he's tasted in the past few days, Wilson cannot help but agree. Even the trendy Japanese restaurants he used to bring his dates to are incomparable.

It is comfort food. Pure and simple, one-bowl meals with no frills.

Isao-san comes out and leans over the counter, watching them with an indulgent smile as they tuck in. He wipes his wrinkled face with his white hand towel, and stares intently at House.

"Greg," Isao-san says. There is a lilt, courtesy of the Japanese accent, in the way he says it. "How are you?"

To Wilson's disappointment, House answers in Japanese. But he listens in wonder. There is a respect in House's tone that Wilson has hardly ever seen. And it is not grudging respect – it is a sincere respect tinged with rare warmth and affection.

Isao-san picks up the cue from House, and continues the conversation in Japanese. Wilson can only continue making headway into his _oyako-don_.

He almost chokes on a piece of chicken when he sees Isao-san reach out and gently clasp House's wrist with his own wrinkly hands. House's eyes remain steadfastly fixed on his half-eaten bowl of noodles.

"_Nana korobi, ya oki_," Isao-san says gently. "_Anata wa tsuyoidesu_."

House only shakes his bowed head and mumbles something Wilson can't catch. He can only watch as Isao-san's eyes convey a sadness that even Wilson can feel in his very bones.

Isao-san takes House's seat as House heads into the kitchen, and he too, watches as House starts to soap the bowls. Wilson can see a slight smile on Isao-san's face. There is fierce pride and affection there, though it is mingled with the sadness that Wilson spotted earlier.

He can identify with that feeling, he realizes. It's something he has felt for House many times over.

Isao-san seems to come back to himself abruptly, and shakes his head with a soft chuckle. "You are Greg's friend? Doctor too?"

"Twenty years. We work – worked – at the same hospital together."

"Good. Very good. You are nice man." Isao-san adds, "Greg is a good boy. He teach me English."

Somehow, Wilson is charmed by the idea of a young, precocious House teaching Isao-san English. "He was good teacher." Then, with a mischievous glint in his eyes, he adds, "Teach me bad words too."

And he proceeds to demonstrate enthusiastically.

Wilson, hiding his smile behind his cup, chokes, spitting out his tea. Isao-san laughs out loud, and claps Wilson on the back heartily.

"Isao-san," Wilson says a while later after he has managed to stop snorting tea. He sets his cup down, never taking his eyes off House's hunched figure in the kitchen. "What did he say to you just now?"

Isao-san doesn't need Wilson to specify what he's referring to.

"Here in Japan," he muses, "we have a saying. _Nana korobi, ya oki. _Fall down seven times, get up eight."

Wilson glances over at House, then back at Isao-san. He's not answering the question.

"It was what I tell Greg when those bad boys beat him up." Isao-san refills Wilson's cup of _ocha_ as he continues, "_Gai-jin_, they used to call him. Foreigner. White boy. So I told him that every day."

Wilson can picture it vividly – a young, inquisitive Gregory House, exploring the nooks and crannies of the quaint cobbled streets to satisfy his curiosity, mocked for being different with his lanky stature and white skin, being rescued and steered into this tiny shop, a steaming hot bowl of noodles placed under his nose, cuts and bruises tended to by a younger Isao-san.

"I think," Isao-san checks that House is out of earshot, then confesses in a low whisper, "the bruises not always from those bad boys."

Wilson inhales sharply.

"But Greg always say no. He is very strong."

"He is very strong," Wilson agrees. Perhaps strong is an understatement. House has gone through things that most people wouldn't have been able to withstand. And he has emerged, still somewhat unscathed. "He has to be."

Isao-san pauses, thinking for a moment, before answering Wilson's original question. "He says he is tired. That it is very hard to get up so many times."

Wilson turns to look at House, who somehow manages to balance on his left leg, supported by his crutches, and still dry dishes with both hands.

He closes his eyes, and tries to imagine the House from before. The House who had a brilliant future as an up-and-coming doctor; who used his wit and intelligence to entertain and amuse, and not only to insult; who thrashed everyone at every sport; who would teach Japanese chefs English, and find comfort in the kind gestures of random strangers.

The House who was whole, and had not yet been betrayed by his treacherous body, setting him down a path no one ever deserved to have to take.

* * *

><p>"They say that <em>this<em> is the spot that has the best view!"

House stares rather incredulously at the map Wilson insistently brandishes before grabbing it, crumpling it up into a ball and flinging it into one of the dustbins that seem to appear every hundred yards. "Stop it. You look every bit a tourist."

"I _am_ a tourist!"

"_I'm_ not," House snaps back. "This way." He leads Wilson towards a small path, away from the middling crowd of tourists who brandish cameras and giant tourist maps.

It is a small, winding path that goes uphill. Wilson's offers to take House's backpack are met with an impatient wave of the hand, so he settles on glancing at House anxiously every five seconds.

The path is almost deserted. It isn't well maintained, with sticks and large stones scattered all over. Wilson gets a heart attack more than once when House nearly loses his battle to find firm footing with his crutches.

Finally, they reach the end of the path, coming to a clearing.

Wilson walks to the end of the clearing, and looks down the edge of the cliff onto the sandy beach below. Right ahead of him is just the sea – blue, so blue, with white foam outlining curls in the waves. It's quiet, with just the sounds of his and House's breathing, the faintest sounds of lapping waves, and the rustle of the cherry blossom trees as the gentle wind dances across the air.

He turns around. House is standing a few steps behind him under the grove of cherry blossom trees, shrugging off his heavy coat and laying it on the floor. Wilson follows suit, removing his light windbreaker and placing it next to House's.

They lie down on the grassy incline, arms folded behind their heads.

It literally takes Wilson's breath away. He's seen cherry blossoms before back home in New Jersey. But seeing them here, so lush in multitudes, entire trees just beautiful shades of pink and purple, wild, covering the entire hill, juxtaposed against the sea… All around them are just colors – bright, vivid, glimmering colors. It is breathtaking.

House hums contentedly and gazes straight up at the cherry blossoms that are so impossibly pink, stark against the blue sky. They lie there in the gentle warmth of the sunlight for an indeterminable amount of time.

"We're going home tomorrow," Wilson says to no one in particular.

House is silent.

"Do you want to visit the base?" It's a long shot, but Wilson can at least try. "You _did _spend several years there, and we are here anyway."

A shake of the head is the only answer.

"Then why did we come here?"

House seems to contemplate his answer before saying, "Being away from it is enough."

The way House says it is enough to make Wilson drop the subject. But there is one last thing.

"Will you bring me to the hospital?" He asks hesitantly. "Where you met the _baraku_."

"_Buraku_," House corrects. "What for."

Wilson shrugs. "I want to see for myself."

"I highly doubt he's alive, unless he is a hundred and ten years old."

"This is the country where living to a hundred is not a rarity."

"Wilson," House turns and finally looks at him. "_Why_."

It's so sappy Wilson can imagine House mocking him for it. "It's where you decided you wanted to become a doctor."

House gives a pained half-laugh instead. "It's where I decided that being _right_ is all that matters. People will do anything when they're desperate – buying organs on the black market, talking to the untouchable…"

Then House says softly, almost to himself, "He was just their tool."

Wilson mouths _tool _silently to the open sky, blinking almost dazedly. "House… You weren't a tool."

House interrupts, wearily. "I'm tired, Wilson." He closes his eyes, and tilts his chin up to inhale fresh air before muttering, "I'm just… tired."

Wilson nods mutely. The silence is thick and heavy, but he just can't find the words to cut through it.

"When we go back…" Wilson clears his throat as his voice wavers dangerously. "After the surgery, maybe we'll go on another long holiday. Take a break. Explore new places. You can bring me to India, or Egypt, or some other far-flung exotic place." Wilson is relieved to see a ghost of a smile on House's face. "Then… then we'll figure out where we go from there."

House doesn't respond to that.

Wilson moves towards House until they're lying next to each other, their shoulders touching. House doesn't move away or object.

Then, Wilson realizes something.

"You _are_ going back, right?" House hasn't actually said that he is going back to Wilson. And Wilson booked his tickets separately from House's. He's seen House's return ticket – ends sticking out of the passport – but he hasn't actually seen the destination specified on it. "For the surgery." When House doesn't respond, Wilson sits up, leaning back on his elbows, his heart starting to beat faster. "You need the surgery, House."

When House avoids his gaze, Wilson says sharply, "_House._"

"Yeah," House says distractedly. Reluctantly. He glances almost nervously at Wilson, searching for something. "Yeah."

Wilson knows – House didn't intend on going back.

But he also knows what House is looking for. "You're coming home with me," he says firmly. "You have something to go back to. _Have._ Present tense. _Will always have._ Future tense."

House chews on his lower lip, almost anxious, still trying to read Wilson's face.

"Trust me."

Wilson can feel it when House finally relaxes. His hand still on House's forearm, he squeezes it slightly before letting go.

"I think you would have a stable career as a Prescription Passion scriptwriter."

Wilson winces. "It wasn't that bad."

"Was too."

"Was not."

"Was – "

"Shut up, House."

They fall back into silence.

But something remains niggling at the back of Wilson mind. Then, he remembers his question that was never answered.

"House?"

"Yeah."

"Were you happy?"

House lets his eyes fall close again. He is still for so long that Wilson thinks he's drifted off to sleep. Wilson doesn't dare to move, an irrational fear of destroying this moment gripping him.

House looks, really looks at Wilson, and there is something soft, a spark once missing, in the blue eyes. Wilson knows the answer before House even says it. Now – this, them, here – is all that matters.

"Now," House finally answers, "I'm happy now."

_The end. _


End file.
